


a love type thing

by ithacas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithacas/pseuds/ithacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He kneels by his side of the bed, crossing his arms on the mattress and leaning down, watching his little family of two breathe in unison. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a love type thing

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially the result of a twitter conversation at two in the morning that got away from me because the image of Louis watching Harry and their kid would NOT let me go. SIGH.

He jingles the keys in the lock as little as he can, muffling the sound with the sleeves of his jumper. Well, Harry’s jumper really, if the aftershave is anything to go by - that and the way Louis’ all but swimming in it, how it hangs just low enough that he can feel goosebumps on his collarbones.

He’s not to blame for not exactly coordinating his outfit, what with being woken up suddenly in the middle of the night and playing heads or tails to decide who’s going to the local 24 hour Boots. Louis picked heads because he always picks heads but he didn’t have the heart to tell the truth when he saw Harry’s bloodshot eyes blinking into wakefulness. Instead, he ruffled the mass of curls groaning next to him and pulled on his comfiest trakkies, heart aching a little as he unlocked the door downstairs and watched Harry pad blindly into The Baby’s room to soothe her through the teething.

He shuts the front door behind him now, bringing both palms to his face and breathing out on them, trying to improve circulation. He’d taken the Range Rover, even though Boots was ten minutes away on foot, because it’s December and it’s bloody chilly and he was warm and snug and smiling into the crook of Harry’s neck until the baby monitor started crackling. He got Mum on the phone as soon as he pushed the revolving doors, nodding a hello to the girl at the till who didn’t bat an eyelid, just directed him straight to the baby aisle.

He must have that look on him. The ‘I’m a New Dad and I’m in way over my head’ look.

He makes his way into the kitchen, tiptoeing over the marble in an effort to make as little noise as possible. Fat chance of that happening. He steps on one of those squeaky kiddie toys that are littered on the floor and makes a face as he closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crying to begin again. When five minutes go by and it’s still silent in the house, he lets out a sigh of relief and kicks the offending blob of green out of the way. He thinks it might be a gift from Niall, a peace offering when he realised what a set of lungs The Baby had. Needless to say, it hadn’t worked.

He lays out the carrier bag on the table and starts unloading it, sorting everything by level of importance. A clean flannel, chamomile sachets, an odd blue looking gel that he’s not letting within ten feet of The Baby even though Mum swears by it. Then, the stuff Mum made him promise to buy. A packet of sleeping pills to share with Harry when she gets here tomorrow, a bar of chocolate to give them both a boost, a bottle of wine he wasn’t aware a pharmacy supplied that’s looking very very tempting.

Kneading a fist into the corner of his eye, he walks over to the kettle and switches it on, digging into their tea jar for the last teabag. His eyes are drooping dangerously by the time the steam starts whistling so he only pours a teaspoon of milk in, inhaling the bitterness and trying to convince himself he’s awake. He’s not sure he can remember getting a decent night’s sleep lately; it’s been about a full week now, ever since they got back from the pediatrician and were told not to worry one bit, because ‘your little girl’s growing up’. In what universe that counts as reassuring, Louis will never understand. 

Still holding one hand wrapped tight around his cuppa, he toes his Converse off and shrugs off his jacket, taking the stairs two steps at a time. He slips into the bathroom first, putting his mug down and splashing some water on his face because he’s foreseeing a long night of sleeplessness and mumbling the tune of a Beach Boys song or two. It’s only then that he realises how quiet it is; he frowns at his reflection - hair a little flatter than he’d like and more stubble than he appreciates on his chin but the Tomlinson charm’s still there - and tilts his head as if to hear better.

Nothing. Which, under ordinary circumstances would have him thanking some kind of deity for their magnanimity or something, but right now has a very deep worry line appearing right smack dab in between his eyes. This is possibly what he meant by ‘I’m a New Dad and I’m in way over my head’ look. Only it’s peppered a bit with a ‘the love of my life has had about three hours of sleep this week so maybe he’s fallen into a coma’ look. He’s looked better, is the gist of it.

Picking up his mug again - because worried he might be, but he’s also a little bit English and there’s no better way to counteract nerves -  he walks as lightly as he can to the door opposite the bannister. It’s pink - because Harry had insisted - and there’s a small board hanging there, decorated with flowers and bees and still looking blank. Hence why the baby is still called The Baby; Harry had even suggested they formally call her that because he couldn’t imagine her being anyone else. Louis had petted his hair and wondered out loud why he was in love with an idiot for the thousandth time.

He swings the door open with a foot and sneaks in, blinking a little at the hazy pink light coming from the night stand. There’s no danger of stepping on anything loud in this room; he and Harry are as meticulous about keeping it tidy as they are about forgetting to make sure the rest of the house is livable. He smiles a little to himself at the photos decorating almost every inch of the walls - all variations of Harry, Louis and The Baby doing some mundane thing or another - and pads over to the cot, that’s still swinging slightly.

It’s not the least bit surprising when he finds it empty.

Letting out an aggravated sigh - well, he likes to think it’s aggravated, it’s mostly just an ‘I really know that curly idiot too well’ sort of sentiment - he walks out again and heads to his and Harry’s bedroom, the hallway light showing him a clear pathway between the toy debris. He hears soft breathing before he leans on the door jab and then he can’t help but smile over the brim of his mug at the sight in front of him, faux aggravated or not.

The duvet is pooled at the foot of the bed because apparently Harry is a human heater that doesn’t understand the concept of _cold_. Harry’s side of the bed is untouched, indents still on the pillow from when he’d woken up before, but empty now and looking cold. Louis’ side, on the other hand, is very much crowded.

Harry’s sprawled there, limbs as lanky and as long as the first time Louis watched him fall asleep next to him, jutting at odd angles like they always do when he’s trying to get comfortable.

“It’s a nervous thing. I can’t get comfortable when you’re not around,” Harry told him once, after they’d been apart too long and Louis found him curled in fetal position, trying stubbornly to fall asleep. Louis’ never been one to play big spoon, but he had that day, fitting himself as best he could around the boy who’d missed him.

It’s a little different though, this time; or a lot, depending on how you look at it. She’s so small, is the thing, you’d be forgiven if your eyes skated past her at first, had to do a double take to make out the bundle of nothing pressed close to Harry’s chest. He’s laid her just under his chin, her feathery hair tickling the side of his neck, her front pressed just above Harry’s heart. One massive hand is locked tightly around the ankle kicking sleepily at his lower abdomen and two tiny fists are bunched in his undershirt, making it wrinkle. Louis knows it’s ridiculous, thinking of them in sizes; it just hits him sometimes and it’s overwhelming when it does, because Louis is no longer the smallest thing that fits just right under Harry’s arm. There’s a whole other person now who fits that role and Louis’ never ever been less jealous in his life.

He shouldn’t really - because neither of them have slept in days and Mum warned him how easy it was for The Baby to wake up in pain again - but it’s like he can’t help but edge a little closer, resting the cuppa on the nightstand. He kneels by his side of the bed, crossing his arms on the mattress and leaning down, watching his little family of two breathe in unison. He’s not sure which one of them looks younger.

As hard as it’s always been to keep his hands off Harry - and that’s _always_ been hard, the greatest exercise of his willpower, if he’s honest - it’s damn near impossible to stop himself from reaching out to stroke a finger over The Baby’s hand. She doesn’t move thankfully, so he gets a little braver, untangling the small hand and bowing over to press his lips against it. He breathes her in and smiles at how she smells so much like _baby_ , sweet and soft and sleepy. It might just be his favourite smell in the world. He rests his head back on his crossed arms, nose nudging at Harry’s side. Well, there might be a bit of competition for his absolute favourite smell, truth be told.

“Be careful,” says a rough voice suddenly and Louis thanks his lagging natural instincts for not screaming himself silly. Pressing a hand to his chest, he scowls as sternly as he can in Harry’s direction - which probably isn’t sternly at all, judging from Harry’s face. It’s not Louis’ fault if it’s physically impossible to look serious when Harry has his dopey, just-woken-up grin on, skin glowing a little with well-earned sleep, hair a tumbled mess that Louis reaches a hand to run through.

“‘m always careful, Hazza. She’s still asleep, don’t worry,” he smiles back.

Harry lifts his head a little, rubbing a soft circle on The Baby’s pink leg. “We had a yelling match while you were gone. I think she tired herself out.”

“A resounding win for Styles,” Louis cheers in a whisper. Harry chuckles.

“Hard-fought victory.”

“I can see that. What did we say about her sleeping on her own?”

Harry bites his lip, like he’s sixteen and just caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “It’s the only way she’d settle down. She likes it here.”

“So do you, apparently,” Louis mumbles, hand still absent-mindedly drawing shapes against Harry’s scalp. “My side of the bed.”

“‘s warm,” Harry says heavily, leaning down to nuzzle against Louis’ arm. “And it smells like you. I think she likes that.”

“Does she,” Louis mirrors, rolling his eyes fondly.

“We both do,” Harry relents. Then he gives Louis a quick once over. “Pot meet kettle. Isn’t that my jumper?”

“At this point, I’m honestly not sure.” He stretches out his arms,  the sleeves bunching in his fists. “I’d hazard a guess that you got this first though.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah. Looks like it. Aren’t you knackered, Lou?”

Louis yawns pointedly. “Now you mention it...”

“Come in bed with us then. We’ve kept it warm for you.”

Louis doesn’t need to be told twice. He throws off his sweatpants and crawls on the other side of the bed still in the jumper because it’s warm and Harry looks like he’ll refuse any extra covering that isn’t a very small child. He settles in at Harry’s side, fitting his head on his shoulder, one hand on The Baby’s back; he can hear the quiet pitter patter of her heartbeat under his thumb.

Harry’s head is turned to the side, watching Louis get comfortable with the corners of his mouth tilted up. He nudges Louis’ legs until he gets the picture and they end up tangled together, his toes buried under Harry’s thigh. “Mmm,” Louis mutters appreciatively and, half-asleep already, he leans over to press a kiss to Harry’s forehead. He must miss by half a mile, though, because he almost giggles when Harry catches his lips in his and kisses him lazily. “Not in front of The Baby,” Louis grins.

Harry snorts. “She’d better get used to it,” he whispers petulantly and Louis’s heart practically swells.

“Hey,” he says, lying down again and blinking up at Harry from the pillow they’re sharing.

“Yeah?”

“Love you, y’know.”

“I know,” Harry says smugly, hand cupping The Baby’s head. Louis can see him open his eyes a fraction and give him a sly thumbs up. “Love you too. A little bit.”

“Not too much?”

“Just enough.”

“Liar,” Louis yawns.

Harry shrugs, still smiling. “Sleepy Lou.”

“Sleepy Haz. Sleepy Baby.” Louis sighs, snuggling closer even though it shouldn’t be possible. “She’s gonna need to learn to sleep in her own bed sometime.”

“Tomorrow,” Harry replies, words slurred and mouth lazy against Louis’ hair.

“Tomorrow,” Louis agrees, finally giving into sleep.

 


End file.
